When Christmas Trees Were Tall

By Charles Langley Byron

Growing up in the Eastern Cape Province of South Africa in the 1950’s and 1960’s. The emphasis is on a way of life completely different to that of the present day, some 60 years later.

Reminiscences of schooling in King Williams Town (Dale Junior), then East London (Cambridge Junior), then back to King Williams Town (Dale College). More important, or rather better remembered, were the extra-mural activities, especially sport, especially rugby and cricket. These played a huge role, as involvement in sport was compulsory, in many of life’s lessons, learnt young.

Long Summers and the ‘Christmas holidays’, often associated with sea-side resorts along the ‘East Coast’ and the Transkei ‘Wild Coast’, are well remembered and recorded for posterity – possibly one of the few things that remain timeless (?) especially concerning small children. Definitely periods responsible for the title of this book.

A family tie to a wonderful farm in the Kei Road district of the Eastern Cape availed the writer of the wonders of nature in its many guises and instilled a love of the bush that was to last, and influence, a lifetime.

The East London of those years bragged the presence of a modern and highly acclaimed Grand Prix circuit and the early years (1960’s) of the modern era of motor racing are recounted here, having been part of that exciting time.

The years as a boarder at Dale College account for a large portion of the story, again probably because the memory of that period is better – it was also such a complete change of environment from what had gone before that it has been better ‘embedded’ in the mind. It was a “growing up fast” episode for a youngster and some of its ‘lessons’ have been life-long. Again sport, especially rugby, played a big part in school life.

The conscript army at that time in South Africa is introduced, but is dealt with in detail in the sequel book “All Over the Shop” which is in progress. The foundation is laid for a huge change in a young life, the end product of which was to exit South Africa for Botswana many years later (covered in the third and final book “Gold, at Last”).
About the Author

A ‘baby boomer’ born in 1949 and schooled at Cambridge Junior in East London, Dale College in King Williams Town and Natal university in Pietermaritzburg (eventually).

Has been living in Botswana for the last 30 plus years and is now a semi-retired exploration geologist still searching for the ‘mother load’ even though there has been involvement in the discovery of numerous mineral deposits, mainly gold.

In addition to Botswana, the work experience elsewhere in Africa includes Namibia, South Africa, Tanzania, Zambia, Zimbabwe, and overseas in Australia and Canada with interludes in England, France and Ireland.

Married to Maryke for over 40 years with two sons who, although ‘bred for export’, decided to return to Botswana, and together with their families (a wife and two daughters each) form a wonderfully close knit family group.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Langley Byron
• Release date: Apr 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463363539

Book preview

Hindsight is Perfect Vision

(A Trilogy)

Book 1:

When Christmas Trees

Were Tall

Hindsight is Perfect Vision

(A Trilogy)

Book 1:

When Christmas Trees

Were Tall

An autobiography, written as a trilogy, of a baby boomer in Southern Africa

Charles Langley Byron

Copyright © 2019 Charles Langley Byron

Published by Charles Langley Byron Publishing at Smashwords

First edition 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by the Author using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Nicola Jenvey for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.co.za

E-mail: [e-mail]

Book 1: When Christmas Trees Were Tall (Growing up in the Border region of Eastern Cape, South Africa)

Book 2: All Over The Shop (A young man in Durban, East London, Kimberley, Johannesburg, Rhodesia – life, love, army, sport, sport, sport) (In Progress)

Book 3: Gold at Last (South West Africa, marriage, university, a geologist in the big wide world – Botswana mainly, but also Namibia, Tanzania, Zambia, Zimbabwe, South Africa and overseas in Australia and Canada with interludes in England and Ireland) (In Progress)

Prologue

This book started out intending to be a history of my grandfather William and his brother Robert - two members of a large Scottish family who came to South Africa in 1896 - King Williams Town, Kaffrarian Steam Mills. This book remains a work in progress and, while compiling the introduction, it became obvious there was another story trying to get out – this one! A brief history of the writer, in short order, turned into an autobiography; then an autobiography with a sequel; and finally an autobiography in three parts - a trilogy.

Hindsight is Perfect Vision has been the most incredible venture; one that has been, and still is, thoroughly enjoyable; one that has gushed out on to the pages; one that once started could not be stopped. Memories just keep on coming, things that had not been thought about since they actually happened, keep on coming back to life, pushing themselves on to these pages.

It has been akin to living an entire life over again, only this time knowing what was going to happen next, and why it had happened in the first place! It has been marvellous. Virginia Woolf wrote: The past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time - it expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.

The main driving force became the fact that, although mine has been a pretty ordinary life, it has been unique in so many ways, especially in comparison to life in the present day. It therefore became my mission to record ordinary life in the period from roughly 1949 to 2019, 70-odd years in which the world changed, not all of it for the better.

The changes that computerisation brought to this planet cannot be compared to anything that preceded it. To have been part of this life on earth, both before and after computers, has been (still is) a merry old dance – and a wonderful one.

As a geologist in the field of minerals exploration, mainly for gold, it has been my intention for many years to some day record the massive changes that have come about in that field. But this simple mission expanded into everything else in life, from birth (if only it could be remembered) to old age.

These writings therefore are not intended to glorify the past, only to put it into perspective, only to record it as being so completely different from the present day, that it be worthy of being read by our children and their children. But also read by fellow baby boomers as a reminder of those amazing days, just a few years back.

Everything in these writings is true, it all happened, more or less in the order in which it is recorded, but no excuses are made for the odd embellishment in the interests of a good story.

If you can get only a fraction of the pleasure in the reading, that I got in the writing, that will be great!

CLB. Francistown, Botswana.

May 2018

Dedication

To our parents’ generation, who lived during that epoch 1900 to 1970 roughly – from horse carts to moon landings and two devastating World Wars. Wow!

That generation for whom Health, Safety and Standard Procedures were governed by common sense.

Where did we go wrong?

Acknowledgements

Once you start writing, the memories just keep coming – Elsa Joubert, famous South African author, still writing and being published at age 95. This is from an interview with Ernst Grundling for GO! magazine of February 2018. In it she also refers to a German author, W.G. Sebald, who called this phenomenon Peculiar Behavioural Disturbance (PBD) – those wheels in your mind that won’t stop turning. Firstly then, acknowledgement is made to my dear wife, Maryke, who not only had to accommodate my PBD, but also provided encouragement and did the first edit – nothing easy there!

Our granddaughter, Jessica, did the Christmas tree on the cover, assisted in the final presentation by her grandmother.

My sincere gratitude to the crew at Reach Publishers who quickly made light work of a complex job – Warren Veenman, Alison Parle, Evie Pivalizza, Sally Veenman, and Joe Freer. With a special thank you to Nicola Jenvey, a gem of an editor.

Thanks also to an old friend and a good one, also a colleague from way back, who wrote not one but two books on his experiences in the African bush as a driller involved in mineral exploration. Drillers are not known for their finesse or their appreciation of literature – quite the opposite in fact! We did many projects together, with more success than failure (not common in the exploration world!). My writing was always going to happen, but when Trevor Frost wrote his books Where Leopards Cough and Scorched Sands of The Kalahari, he gave me a wake-up call and the inspiration to sit down and write, for which I’ll be forever grateful.

My cousin, Richard Tainton has kept alive the art of letter writing in an age where it has all but disappeared. The regular letters continue to be an inspiration and a fond reminder of an age gone by. He has said for years I should write a book – here it is!

Some Background

King Williams Town (KWT), Wodehouse Street, corner with Innes Street, that was our house, the place of the first six years of my life.

The house was acquired by my grandfather, William, in the 1910s. When he died in 1931, it was taken over by my grandmother, Rhoda, who continued bringing up their children, Dulcie, Bob and Rhoda jnr. Bob married Esme Booth in 1940 in Johannesburg and then went off to World War II (WWII) where he served with the Imperial Light Horse Regiment. He fought at El Alamein and the preceding North African desert campaigns in 1942. Although the British had been victorious, their South African allies had taken a pounding and Bob saw no further action, returning to South Africa where he served out the rest of the war in Johannesburg. At the end of hostilities, he was essentially invalided out of the army having never recovered properly from serious gyppo guts and this ultimately led to his demise in 1952 at age 42 years.

Bob and Esme had their first-born, my brother Robert, KWT in 1944 and I was born 1949. Robert was also Bob to everybody, but Rob to me – and that avoids confusion in these pages.

My father, Bob (Charles Robert Hamilton Byron), died in 1952 so I never knew the man. It is sad, because by all accounts, he was a great guy, good husband and father and a wonderful sportsman who probably would have gone places, especially in cricket, had it not been for work and war commitments. He schooled at Dale College in KWT, which was already well-established, having been functional for some 60-odd years by the time Bob matriculated in 1928. In that year he was head boy, captain of the first cricket XI, captain of the first rugby XV and was chosen for the South African Schools’ Cricket side to play against the touring senior England cricket team. He covered himself in glory by scoring a century against that England cricket side in Grahamstown in February of 1928, the first South African schoolboy to do so against a senior men’s international touring side.

The years following that achievement were tough, but Bob secured a job with Standard Bank in KWT and was assigned to various sub-branches doing agency work in the country districts - places like Kei Road, Alice, Berlin, Komga and Peddie, rotating on a daily basis. Sport therefore took a back seat and, although he made the senior Border cricket side, there was little time for serious practice. He was eventually transferred to Johannesburg in the mid 1930s where he played for the Wanderers Club and, by all accounts, was headed for the Transvaal team when war broke out. He changed course and headed for North Africa instead, but not before marrying Esme, a colleague at the Standard Bank, Commissioner Street branch, Johannesburg.

My mother Esme chose to remain in KWT after Bob’s death in spite of a home and family in Johannesburg. She remarried in 1956 and they settled in East London. Boenie Jerome, who had lost his wife in 1953, became our stepfather and his daughters, Eleanor and Marilyn, our stepsisters and so we became a family of six.

Content

Prologue

Dedication

Acknowledgement

Chapter 1

Early Memories in KWT

Chapter 2

East London (Cambridge)

Chapter 3

Cambridge Junior School (CJS).

Chapter 4

Summer Holidays and Christmas Time.

Chapter 5

The Farm Haddon - Kei Road.

Chapter 6

Motor Racing.

East London Grand Prix Circuit.

Chapter 7

The War (World War II)

Chapter 8

Boxing, Mischief and Hooligans

(not necessarily in that order)

Chapter 9

The Last Year at Home

(and Cambridge High School)

Chapter 10

Dale College, KWT

Chapter 11

An Uneasy Start to the Final Year.

Chapter 12

Rugby Season

Chapter 13

Mid-year Tour to Johannesburg

Chapter 14

Kei Road and Haddon again. And a Chick!

Chapter 15

The Second-half of the Last Year at School

Chapter 16

The Push to Matric and Army Looms

Chapter 17

The Army

Chapter 1

Early Memories in KWT

Across the road from us, also in Wodehouse Street, also on the corner of Innes Street, lived the Hendricks family, father the German Lutheran minister, mother a teacher, children, Jackwell (Rob’s age and his friend), Andre (my age, my friend), Etienne (younger brother) and Joanell (sister).

One house up in Innes Street and across from us (same side as Hendricks) was Stuart Winkworth, only child – they went back to England. Graham Harker and family moved in. Graham became a friend after initial hassles because they were typical Cockneys and we just couldn’t understand a word any of them spoke. It was quite weird actually, but a good, early lesson in life on accepting different people. We became good buddies, but never really fully understood each other.

Roy Furstenburg lived with his family in a new house across in Radue Street and we were friends forever. His parents seemed to be young and with it and we all enjoyed going there.

We had a wonderful time as there were a bunch of young boys (probably girls as well, but they were unknown at that stage of our lives) and we got up to all sorts. My biggest advantage at that stage, and one that saved me many problems and possible injury, was my Sophie. She was a very dear and elderly, rather large Xhosa lady who had brought up my Dad and would defend his children no matter the situation – we could do no wrong and beware anybody who thought differently. She was actually the protector of our whole gang and was known throughout the area, because if any of us ran towards our house yelling and crying, it was known to all and sundry that Sophie would be out like a shot brandishing a knobkerrie. And she was pretty formidable, and could dish out a flat hand klap that would knock even an adult off their feet.

Further up Innes Street lived the Chambers, two spinster sisters looking after their mother; kind people and helpful, lovely big Victorian house. Across from them lived Barnes, Judge (maybe not then, but eventually). They moved away to a better house, better suburb. Their son, Barry, was part of our tribe until they moved.

Next door to us in Innes Street was McGillivie (Thyra and Cooks in that order) and a brother/son (?), a lost soul, and I am not sure of the spelling of their names. At that stage everybody was known, and I can remember helping a young postman find the addresses – we’d walk up the road together and I would tell him the names; he would read the envelopes (I couldn’t) and push them into their post boxes on each front gate. He obviously couldn’t identify numbers, neither could I.

My earliest memory is of me sitting on the floor in the lounge with a tall man standing next to the mantelpiece smoking a pipe – my father! That’s it, my only memory of the man. There are fairly vivid memories of the kitchen, for some reason, and of being sick in bed, and of that particular bedroom.

******

My mom Esme worked at the Standard Bank in town (as did Bob) and continued to work there after Bob died. A memory that has been with me ever since it happened was of me getting constipated and next-door neighbour, Thyra McGillivie, having been called by Sophie, hauling me off the toilet and sticking a finger covered in vaseline up the bum. That certainly did the trick, but I kept well clear of her from then on!

The only other memory of my very early days is of playing with dinky toy cars with my brother Rob under a huge coral tree, which was on the pavement outside the gate and between us and the neighbours, the McGillivies.

It was a massive, beautiful tree with big overhanging branches providing wonderful shade and climbing opportunities. However, there were issues, that I well remember – the roots were undermining their house according to Thyra (but not ours, and ours was closer – Esme’s words). Thyra was on the town council and she had the tree cut down – while we were away on holiday at Kidds Beach (the nearest and easiest to reach seaside holiday village). Esme was apoplectic when we arrived home (probably why I remember it so well!). I gathered from adult conversation this would never have happened if Bob had been alive, which made the whole incident that much more distasteful, plus the fact she waited for us to be away. I can see her now, clearly! A very short plump lady with greying hair in a tight bun, permanent glasses at the end of her nose, and strutting, fast, everywhere. I also remember my feelings about the demise of the tree reinforcing the necessity of keeping distance between me and this Thyra lady.

Thyra had a piercing voice and had the annoying (but useful) habit of announcing her arrival at our (and probably everybody else’s) house. There were actually three rather loud shrieks of KU-WEE - the first at the back gate, the second as she came up the stairs to the back door and the third and final as she came through the kitchen door. There was never a knock, just straight into the kitchen. There is a distinct memory of adult conversation to the effect that locking or barricading the door would not help, as she would barge right through without missing a beat. However, the KU–WEE (three times) was the trick, but you had to be nimble and quick! You had the time, just, to get out of the front door and either off to the right and around the corner to the workshop, or to the left and around the corner of the verandah to the fishing tackle room. The latter was by all accounts Bob’s escape route; it was his room and nobody else had access. In fact I remember it being locked at all times. So escaping Thyra was a well thought-out strategy in the whole family! Except for Esme as she, by all accounts, couldn’t stoop to those levels (specifically, running like hell). As explained, avoidance of this lady was among my first memories, and it can be said, without fear of contradiction, it developed into an art form – in a very short time there wasn’t anybody who could beat me to, and through, the front door at the very first KU-WEE!

******

Brother Rob was getting a brand new bicycle, but he wasn’t there to receive it from the guy who delivered it from Fishers, the bicycle shop. He rode it to the house and walked back to the shop. I offered for him to give me a lift back to the store on the bike and for me to push it back home, but he declined. Seeing as there was nobody home, I tried to ride the thing and of course fell off, scratching the precious bike, for which there were consequences, out of all proportion to the deed, not to mention huge drama.

But, learn to ride I did, determined and undeterred by brotherly discipline! Riding with one leg under the bar, standing sort of sideways, as I couldn’t reach the pedals from the saddle, the handle-bar above the head. Of course this couldn’t be done without many falls initially, much to Rob’s disgust, bruising both bike and body. But it came together and one of the earliest rides was right across town to Market Street to visit our future stepsisters Eleanor and Marilyn – and getting a tremendous welcome! And a lift home as it was nearly dark.

The independence that a bicycle brought was the best thing experienced up till then in a young life. And from that point I was rarely off a bicycle until aged 18 years when I got a driver’s licence for a car. And acquired a tjorrie of a car as soon as was humanly possible. That was real, true and adored independence. And that motor car independence is still loved, appreciated and valued to this very day.

******

Another of the pre-school memories in KWT involved our good family friends, Elsa and Eric Sergel, who lived in Alice Street, quite a distance from us, but easily navigable. This particular memory is of a two-week stay with them when Esme had to go to Johannesburg (I think) on family matters.

First a little background. They were of similar age to Esme and great family friends. They had no kids of their own, but loved all children and every kid loved them. Eric was plumpish, bald and wonderful and allowed us to do all sorts of things, like sit on his lap and drive the car, or travel in the back of his bakkie and generally misbehave. He and Bob (my father) had been fishing pals for years and Eric took great joy in teaching me the art of fishing in the sea, from a very young age, at Kidds Beach over some weekends. I continued to fish with him for many years, during long weekends and exeat (permission for temporary absence from boarding school) weekends from boarding school – still at Kidds Beach, but also other seaside spots.

Elsa was a lovely bubbly person who was always doing something for somebody, usually a less fortunate somebody. She made all kids feel special, all the time.

They lived in that Alice Street house forever and we visited them forever even after we left KWT. Theirs was a favourite Sunday lunch venue for the entire four years of my boarding school life in later years – not every Sunday, we only got a few per term - but every one of those took advantage of Elsa’s famous Sunday roast chicken with more roast potatoes than could be eaten, and crumpets for pudding. You could barely walk after those meals.

So, to the memory, and the lesson that resulted. The stay with them for two-odd weeks had been wonderful and full of fun for a young lad, a thoroughly enjoyable stay with people who made me feel very comfortable. Rob, by the way, was farmed out to other friends and we had met up occasionally during that time.

When Esme returned and I was shipped off home again, I was not a happy chappie and took it upon myself to walk back to the Alice Street house. This was not an inconsiderable distance, but it was easy and getting lost was not likely. Anyway, Esme had obviously seen this; had discretely followed to confirm my intentions and had phoned ahead to Elsa and Eric.

Many years later it was discovered they had hatched a plan to discourage me from ever doing such a thing again. As I walked in, Elsa and Eric were sitting at the kitchen table having tea, which was the first strange thing, because they never sat at the kitchen table, never before, never since, it was always the dining room table. And they completely ignored me, like they couldn’t see or hear me, no matter that I greeted them and stood there – they carried on with a conversation between themselves as if there was nobody else in the room.

I was mortified and completely taken aback – it was obvious, even to one so young, that I was not wanted there. I remember being totally numb with shock. As this is written, some 60-odd years on, that feeling still lives, the numb, almost paralysed feeling. There was nothing for it, but to turn tail and head for home, where Esme awaited nonchalantly.

To the present day, there is hypersensitivity to being not wanted, which was reinforced a number of times along the way (some recorded in these writings). It can be felt almost before it happens sometimes, always eliciting an immediate, silent, complete withdrawal - often permanently.

Fortunately, this was not a permanent withdrawal as things quickly returned to normal, although, as Elsa recalled, they all had to work on me. We were talking about this event many years later, during the boarding school years, and Elsa expressed the absolute dismay she had felt at the time at my reaction, but that it had to be done and was resolved quickly.

******

Another early, pre-school memory was an episode we could call The Hair Cut.

The Wodehouse Street house was just about on the very edge of town. There was just one more row of new houses, and then the open veld. In the very last house of that row was a lady who cut hair. There were a couple of barbers in town, but that was quite a distance